She had been Ivy, once.

She was not alone, at least. She would never be alone again.

The lights had brought led her to such a beautiful place. It was only now, as the full moon was rising and the trees were beginning to move, that she could see the true beauty of it.

They walked as if asleep. When they were thirsty, they drank from the pond. When hungry, they ate of fruits and berries. When cold, when needy, they huddled together.

People. They were people. By moonlight. Dozens of people. At least one who was familiar enough to bring memory, even if she could not place her former lover.

And as who-was-once-Ivy walked naked among them, she marveled at their vibrancy, their energy. Some of them had to be hundreds of years old, old enough that their eyes and hair and skin had gone green and brown like the trees they were, even as their human bodies were as young as hers. She longed, silently begged to be among their number.

The lights had done their duty. The forest would grow.

As the moon set and the first light of dawn emerged over the horizon, her roots dug deep into the soft soil and her branches reached high for the sun. She would gather as much light and water as she might before the month passed and she could join in the forest's dance.

Unknown to her, but known to the spirits who have a clever sense of irony, who-was-once-Ivy stood next to the woman who had brought her such happiness when they were both human. When the wind was right, their branches entangled lovingly.